how the mundane things in life, can become the greatest torture.

I'm just trying to focus here; instead, this is all I get.


Mal à la tête

October 11, 2011

.

It's days like these

where my mind is driven scraping circles

round and round my thoughts,

carving unprocessed words

into the wooden beams of railroad tracks.

.

It's every time I get close to the finish,

close to the cut throat wire,

that I shy away,

just moments from being lost into the abyss,

just moments from stepping into

your world.

.

And then I back away,

run as fucking far as I can.

Because I don't really want to be there,

I want to be far, far away,

where's its safe and cold,

dark and empty,

just me and my thoughts, running along.

.

I make a mistake every damned time,

and backtracking is like the painful return

through a sea of leeches and tacks,

the silent trek through needle-tree forests and

poisonous nighttime fog,

and it's not just that,

but the night had always been my friend before.

.

And now I find myself lost,

between a desert full of people

and a lush forest, full of hurt

and self intention.

A purposeful retort,

an intentional torture,

where it's just me and the seasons,

swinging me along,

to the critical moment

of breath-stopped, heart shot,

dilation till elation

beauty in the momentary,

fear in the forever of unseen-ly compelling

ages and lapses stuck between

the rapture of

breath stopped, heart shot.

.

I already told you,

I'll meet you when I get there.